Arya VI

"Babe, do you know where they put that horn I found? You know the one, the broken horn that was buried beyond the Wall!" she cried across the hall in imitation of the way Lord Domeric sometimes spoke to his wife. She found the casual intimacy strangely satisfying.

"Did you check your trunk?" Brad called back.

She had, but it wasn't there. Servants were still bringing up their things, so it was bound to turn up sometime. Strange, it wasn't even a nice horn, and it wouldn't sound no matter how hard you tried. Still, Arya had a feeling it was important somehow. If nothing else, it was a nice souvenir and trophy, something to hang on the mantelpiece and tell their children about some day.

Arya decided to change out of her riding leathers and put on a dress, the new one Lady Barbrey's seamstress made for her fourteenth nameday. It was a gown of warm wool, dyed pink, with the grey direwolf of her house embroidered on the bodice. They were halfway through the year 302, and the long autumn seemed to be winding down at last. The days were bright and cool, the nights chilly.

We've been fortunate for that much, she thought. If winter took them now, they were ready. Dreadport Castle was at least livable, with the last stone laid in the central keep a fortnight past. Giant labor was conveniently speedy. Initially, Arya had wanted it built of pink marble, but that proved too costly. They settled for grey granite, much the same sort as the Dreadfort itself was built of.

"My lady, are you decent?" Brad asked outside her chambers.

"Yes, all changed," she answered. They'd swum naked in the ocean before, but things were different now. After she'd flowered and started growing into her woman's body, it seemed a new wall had sprung up between them, almost overnight. Even so, there was a certain charm in the distance. When they wed in a few years, it would all vanish in an instant, making the sweet wait worth it. But for the nonce, they would sleep in separate bedchambers and make very sure to be properly attired.

"You look beautiful." Brad blurted out when he saw her. There was a goofy grin upon his face. Arya liked the look of him as well.

Her betrothed was only just starting to fill out, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. At times, his muscles strained against the fabric of his tunic. That was his Crakehall blood, no doubt. Alesander was a big man, and Alyx was big for a woman. Her Bradamar was no different. His Braavosi blood meant he tanned easily in the sun, and his dark curly hair fell about his shoulders in ebon ringlets. She especially liked it when it was plastered to his neck and forehead with sweat. His locks were so like Lady Bolton's that it sometimes made Arya laugh.

Viper quick, she kissed him. It was just a light thing, but a taste of his lips from time to time was surely within the bounds of propriety. No one would gainsay her, not even her father. "And you look handsome. Come on, the servants can finish unpacking. We need to have words with that trader captain and the king's customs officer."

In the world outside her window, Arya could see Dreadport growing into a lively town. Previously nothing more than a fishing village, the giant-dredged harbor provided safe places to dock for dozens of ships at a time. Barges came down the Weeping Water, heavily laden with cargoes of iron, worked and unworked, salt, and wool. Plain stuff, but quantity had a quality all its own, as Lord Domeric liked to say. Such volume of trade meant certain legalities had to be observed. King Stannis would get his share, and Lord Domeric as well, but much of the buying and selling enriched her, Arya Stark, personally.

At Brad's advice, she built warehouses and goodly piers where merchants could be charged a fee to park their goods or ships. She had a stake in the inns as well...and two whorehouses. There was one cheap whorehouse for sailors and the like, and another nicer brothel for merchants and lordlings. They all paid taxes to the castle, her castle. A dozen guilds were chartered to oversee a dozen trades: bakers, brewers, smiths, and more. Plain Northern folk came to her domain seeking work, and wildlings too. Some foreigners visited, mainly from Braavos, but from time to time a trader out of Lorath or a fat-bottomed whaler from the Port of Ibben came to call.

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Her streets were clean and straight, and half had already been cobbled. They were no White Harbor, but in time, mayhaps. Arya took Brad's hand, another familiarity she would not deny herself, and led him to the great hall. The rafters above had not yet been blackened by smoke, but her high seat of carved oak was already in its proper place. There was another chair beside it for Brad, though less ornate. When they married, she'd make him a nicer one.

Lady Arya settled down to await petitioners. Brad was at her side, and her direwolf, Nymeria, lolled at her feet. Brad's father, Symond Frey, was technically regent until she came of age, but he let her handle mundane business while he mostly worked to put the town and castle in order.

"Let any who have business to put before the Lady Arya, mistress of Dreadport, come forward!" called out her steward, a man Lady Bolton picked for her. Previously, he handled custom Bolton Bag orders.

A man in sober garb, though of a rich cut, approached and knelt. If he feared her wolf, he concealed it well. "My lady, I have the honor to be Tybio Netharys, master of the Waverider of the free city of Braavos. I come to inquire about the future contract regarding wool. I speak for other captains and merchants in this."

"They want to buy wool in advance, at a fixed price," Brad whispered in her ear. "They know winter is coming as well as we do. Wool will no doubt grow dearer when the weather turns, and they are trying to get ahead of it."

Arya nodded slightly. She knew how prices might rise and fall due to changing needs. Maester Tybald and Lady Alyx had taught her about anticipating the market. She could hold on to her own wool, stockpiling it for when the price rose, but that was not a sure thing. A future contract was more reliable. "You have my leave to negotiate it," she whispered back to Brad.

Tybio Netharys smiled politely while they whispered, then his eyebrows rose when Brad addressed him in Braavosi. Arya only knew a few words, so she let her boy take the merchant off to the side to hammer out a deal on parchment. Negotiations did not take long, and Brad returned to her smiling with satisfaction.

"You get a good deal?" she asked.

"Very good. We'll have a reliable buyer in them for some time."

Good. That was good. She squeezed his hand absentmindedly while the succession of petitioners continued. It was mostly dismal stuff, disputes over the cost of labor and materials among builders as her town continued to grow. Wildlings didn't really understand what guilds were, or why they couldn't sell their homebrewed ale in the town. She worked out a compromise where they would pay the guild a portion of their sales, with a path to eventual integration.

After that came the officer of the King's Customs. She tried to give him a warm welcome, but the man's greeting was stiff and formal. He was to reside in her town, her castle, actually, and to make sure His Grace got every penny owed to him. Their bookkeeping was quite good, up to the latest Braavosi standards, so Arya did not think they would give the sour man reason to complain. He complained of other things, though. His chambers, his food, the servants, and so on. The lordling was a southerner, some second son whose family begged King Stannis to find him some office, and looked plainly miserable in the North.

Symond Frey, her future goodfather, suggested they share a cup of wine and count ships in the harbor. Whether the customs officer knew how to count, Arya wasn't sure, but the offer of wine was well-taken. With him gone, the day's business was concluded.

"Let's go play!" she said, in the food for something childish after all that. They rode out with a small party of guards to see if Nymeria might catch the scent of some likely game. While they were out, the first flurries of snow started to fall.